


In the Name of the Son

by Kikimay



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Father-Son Relationship, HP: EWE, Lucius Malfoy-centric, M/M, Post-Hogwarts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-05
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-04-25 01:41:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4941769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kikimay/pseuds/Kikimay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>‘He’s only four years old, Lucius! You surely don’t expect your father’s rigor from a child, do you? Let him play, it’s just a phase!’</i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>Lucius listens to her, most of the time, but he can’t help to fear for this child too sensitive, too affectionate, who hugs elves as they were worthy creatures.</i></p><p> </p><p>A journey into the relationship between a father and a son and what constitutes love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Name of the Son

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Nel Nome del Figlio](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4913302) by [Kiki (Kikimay)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kikimay/pseuds/Kiki). 



> This translation is unbetaed. I did it all by myself and I don't doubt that I left so many mistakes hanging around the text. Sorry! I just wanted to share. After a two hours long translation I can't seem to distinguish between Bad English and Good English anymore. My brain just went numb.
> 
> Hope you like it anyway!

_I Once was Blind but Now I See_  
  
  
  
It’s an extraordinarily bright June afternoon. Lucius feels like he has abandoned the soil of his homeland and found himself in a parallel world, in southern Greece perhaps, where soft sand meets a warm and benevolent sea.  
  
Narcissa sits between the immaculate sheets of their bed, her long blond hair loose on her back, her eyes investigating every detail of the bundle in her arms.  
  
Draco shakes his fists and moves his mouth, squeezing his flushed cheeks. Narcissa watches him, delighted. She moves her index on her son’s crushed face to trace every ripple. She touches his chin, wet with saliva, and then opens a fist to study the five fingers. They are tiny and perfect, almost fluorescent in the backlight.  
  
“He’s beautiful,” she whispers, full of wonder, as she bends to kiss her firstborn’s forehead. “He’s beautiful. Draco ...”  
  
Lucius cannot find the words to express his assent. He stands motionless, at the foot of their bed.  
  
  
  
  
The Azkaban cells are immersed in a perpetual darkness and in a sticky and stifling humidity, that Lucius doesn’t understand. He remembers the unnatural cold caused by the proximity of the Dementors. He remembers their annihilating touch.  
  
Yet Lucius feels hot, somewhere inside him, and he would almost tear his skin apart and open his chest to let in the air.  
  
Narcissa’s visits are always too short. She’s the only person whom he can confess his insane desire, the only one who can make him desist. Without her, Lucius gasps in a sea of heat and anger.  


  
  
Draco is four years old. He bounces among daffodils and gardenias in the Malfoy Manor gardens, where he chases soft-winged butterflies without success. From the inside of the gazebo, Narcissa watches and guides him without saying a word, only arching her eyebrow.  
  
Draco runs and tumbles and enjoys tormenting the house elves who follow him, terrified at the idea of seeing their young master lying on the ground, bleeding. Impulsively Draco embraces a new elf and basks in his shocked and secretly pleased expression.  
  
As he sees that, Lucius feels an uncontrollable rage. He gets up from the couch next to Narcissa’s and approaches his son. Draco freezes.  
  
Draco is a very curious child. Creative and lively, he loves to spend afternoons with his mother who lets him practice with canvases and paints. Lucius disapproves, appalled by the idea of their only child being a clueless Ravenclaw with some artistic aspirations, but Narcissa giggles in face of his fears.  
  
_‘He’s only four years old, Lucius! You surely don’t expect your father’s rigor from a child, do you? Let him play, it’s just a phase!’_  
  
Lucius listens to her, most of the time, but he can’t help to fear for this child too sensitive, too affectionate, who hugs elves as they were worthy creatures.  
  
“Draco, won’t you tell me what you just did?” He asks, modulating the tone of his voice as best as he can.  
  
His wife’s glare is fixed on him, like that of a judge deciding on the pending verdict.  
  
Draco opens his gray eyes and thinks for a moment.  
  
“I hugged the elf and I shouldn’t. I’m sorry, _papa_.”  
  
Lucius considers the sincerity of his son’s apology, then he nods and starts to walk away. Draco holds out a hand.  
  
“You don’t want to ...” he begins, a little scared, a little hopeful. “Don’t you want to catch butterflies, too?” He asks.  
  
Absently Lucius thinks of a spell to capture all the flying butterflies with a single wand movement, then he realizes that this isn’t his son’s goal. He bends down to hold his little shoulders.  
  
“Draco,” he begins. “You’ll learn that a Malfoy has countless duties to himself and his family and that there is no time to waste on pointless games. But now you’re just a boy ... go and have fun. And do not touch again those ...”  
  
“No, not anymore.”  
  
Draco’s face is smooth and round. He has the delicate complexion of a young prince. Lucius touches him and sees only weakness.  
  
  
  
  
Narcissa’s visits follows the same ritual. His wife enters the hearing room, where she undergoes what must be yet another search, then she wears again her heavier coat and covers her head with a scarf. Azkaban is incredibly cold for her.  
  
Lucius follows every moment and, when Narcissa sits and the guards give him the green light to join her, his expression softens and his hands seek hers, despite the chains.  
  
Narcissa offers him a loving smile and doesn’t escape his touch which, in Lucius’ opinion, is the biggest proof of the sincerity of her feelings. He wouldn’t be so pitiful towards his ow face marked by fatigue and his messy hair.  
  
They talk of this and that. The state of things at Malfoy Manor, their finances, the post-war political alignments, the flashing career of Potter and his own. They talk constantly about Draco. Lucius is more interested in the damage that the war represented for his son’s image – _and only in those moments he bites his lip and regrets the defeat_ – Narcissa talks about their son’s acquaintances, about his ways a bit melancholic and the progression of his studies.  
  
Draco doesn’t participate at these family visits. He stopped looking at his father since the night he saw a teacher die on their table and, although present at all the Wizengamot hearings, he has always kept himself silent and aloof.  
  
Lucius doesn’t blame him even once. He considers his son’s aversion for the cold temperatures and how inappropriate it would be for the heir of Malfoy Manor to show up in a prison. With a little patience he had assimilated his own apologies, classifying them as Draco’s justifications.  
  
“I worry about him,” Narcissa whispers, after a moment of silence. Lucius frowns. “He became a close friend to ... he has started go out more with his peers and I think he has feelings for someone ...”  
  
“Is she a respectable girl?”  
  
Narcissa stays silent for a moment. Then smiles.  
  
“Nothing serious. You know, he’s in a stage where he needs to experiment and the war didn’t certainly helped. He needs to find out what it means to be truly a man.”  
  
“Of course. Just remind him to be careful, would you?”  
  
Narcissa smiles again, looking a little amused as those who know a secret.  
  
“You too,” she replies, before walking away.  
  
  
  
Draco is eleven years old. He’s back home after the end of the school year and he’s greeted with a party by his mother, who kisses him and hands him a piece of his favorite dessert.  
  
He still smiles like a child, but his smile is a bit sharper, more aware. He became the perfect Slytherin his father had always wanted, _not even a moment of hesitation from the Sorting Hat!_ , and yet there is something that torments him.  
  
Arms crossed, stubborn pout on his lips, he tells his father about Potter, _stupid Potter!, who everyone thinks so special because of his scar and broomstick_ ... Most of all, Draco doesn’t understand why Potter didn’t want to become his friend. ( _“Aren’t we, the Malfoys, a great family? Are we not among the most purest and the worthy?”_ He asks Father.)  
  
Lucius nods absently and promises his son a revenge on the Quidditch pitch. Draco grins.  
  
  
  
  
Draco arrives in Azkaban two days after his birthday and Lucius considers it as a gift out of time and even more valuable. He watches the searches, suppressing the joy that would push him to tears and then sits on his table, awaiting for the arrival of the son.  
  
Draco’s face is more angular then he remembers, but his skin is always smooth and perfect. His gray eyes fix everything but his father’s eyes.  
  
“How are you?” Lucius asks impatiently. “It’s nice to see you.”  
  
They talk about this and that, after the initial embarrassment that forces Draco to a minute of bewildered silence.  
  
Business isn’t bad, Draco got the permission to open an apothecary in Diagon Alley, Malfoy Manor is maintained in a state of decorum.  
  
“Father, I have come to tell you very important news ... terrible news ...”  
  
Draco’s eyes are finally on Lucius’ and in that moment they both understand and wish they wouldn't ever met the other.  
  
“Mother is ill.”  
  
  
  
Lucius gets a permission to receive owls directly from his wife. Narcissa’s disease is faster than all expectations and Lucius can find his only solace in reading her words that he imagines recited with a serene and very aware voice. Narcissa is, after all, the bravest woman he’d ever knew. Much braver than him.  
  
One April morning he receives the dreaded news and falls to the ground, in the cell that now burns. For days he scratches his skin until a Dementor puts him into a merciful sleep.  
  
In his dreams he sees Narcissa, Draco, Bellatrix and all the men and women who have suffered within the walls of his house. With tremendous certainty, he knows that Potter went to his wife’s funeral. He simply knows.  
  
  
  
The following months are full of apathy and despair. Draco takes Narcissa’s place, but his visits are _too long_ and they often remain silent, unable to find new topics of conversation.  
  
Draco has become a respectable potions master, able to give his advice to the Ministry, but his life seems emptier than his father’s who is in prison.  
  
He doesn’t care for women and has no plans to marry. With calculated kindness, he has submitted his perennial refusal to Parkinson and Greengrass, who had tried to win his attentions. He sustains his father’s gaze whenever he pronounces the words “engagement” or “marriage” and firmly does not care for his suggestions. He goes so far as to deliberately hurt him, reminding him that the Malfoy name was marred by war. This Lucius cannot forgive.  
  
But Draco is all that remains of his family and the only link to the outside world and soon he finds himself living with the idea of remaining without heirs.  
  
One summer afternoon one of them randomly mentions Potter and Draco’s face becomes reddish. Lucius doesn’t dwell on that.  
  
  
  
  
December is upon them, when the Wizengamot approves Lucius’ release. Draco arrives in Azkaban early in the morning, for completing the necessary procedures to take custody of his father. Lucius is consumed by the prison, scared and tired, and yet he fears the prospective of leaving. He doesn’t know anything about the world anymore and Draco isn’t Narcissa.  
  
He hesitates for a moment, at the access point to the Portkey. Then a pair of gray eyes meets his and Lucius is embarrassed to show his weakness once again. He comes forward with the proud attitude of a Malfoy and takes his son’s arm. The leave Azkaban forever.  
  
They Appear near the Manor, in a place that Lucius doesn’t immediately recognize.  
  
“They brought down the gates,” Draco says.  
  
They start to walk when, at the main gate, they find Potter in his Auror robes waiting for them. Draco stiffens.  
  
“I have to escort you inside,” Potter explains. “ Shacklebolt’s orders.”  
  
Draco nods and Potter joins them.  
  
Lucius watches him carefully. He’s different, a man now. His face is more squared, his jaw defined and covered by a dark beard. He looks forward with determination, his grip on the wand is firm.  
  
They enter the house.  
  
“Father, I need to explain you a couple of ...” Draco runs a hand on the back of his neck and waves to turn on the lights in the main hall. The walls had been painted entirely in white and some of the furniture is gone. “The Manor is in good conditions and we have permission to reside here, after the Auror’s searches ...”  
  
Potter suppresses a snort.  
  
“As you will notice, some of the furniture and art is gone ... the habitable rooms are few, but I believe you’ll be pleased to see them. We have a house elf. She’s called Twinkie and she helps me as much as she can. The property is huge, after all.”  
  
Lucius processes the new information in silence. Then he turns to see Twinkie, a fragile creature dressed entirely in pink scarves.  
  
_“It’s … free!”_ He shrieks.  
  
Draco nods, increasingly tense.  
  
“The policy changed and no one would ever wanted to work for us ... we had to adapt.”  
  
Twinkie smiles amiably.  
  
“But she’s very professional, you see,” Draco adds. “And I’m sure you’ll be fine with her.”  
  
Lucius squeezes his eyes and raises his eyebrows. He does not fail to notice the look of confusion that his son exchanges with Potter.  
  
“I’m tired,” he says at last.  
  
“Sure, sure. Twinkie will show you your room.”  
  
Lucius follows her in silence.

  
  
  
It’s not the room he shared with Narcissa, it could never be. This too is painted in white and has just a large green bed and some fine furniture.  
  
Twinkie changes the sheets and shows him the door of his private bathroom. She speaks with a soft voice and takes a bow at the end of every sentence.  
  
Lucius thanks and dismisses her, inventing a sudden sleepiness. Then he starts walking down the hallway, exploring the locked doors as he tries to remember the exact layout of everything before it changed.  
  
He hears Potter and his son from the entrance hall and stoops to look from an old peephole.  
  
Potter is standing not so far away from Draco who is gesticulating animatedly. The Auror’s expression is relaxed, quietly amused. Every once in a while a genuine smile lights up his face.  
  
“Everything will be fine,” Potter whispers, caressing Draco’s face with his hand.  
  
Draco tries to push him away, but surrenders immediately. He presses his cheek against Potter’s hand turns to kiss the palm.  
  
Lucius gasps.  
  
  
  
They do not speak at breakfast or dinner. When he’s not at work, Draco spends many hours in his study or in the kitchen, where he cooks in silence. Lucius imagines him sharing his dinners with Twinkie and feels nauseous. Then he thinks about Potter.  
  
He surprises the Auror in his house a few times and immediately notices Draco’s reaction, all flushed and guilty.  
  
He spies on them once again, while they are in Draco’s study. They are holding each other with an intimacy that leaves no doubt on the nature of their relationship. Draco presses his face against Potter’s shoulder, who caresses his back and hair. Lucius sees them breaking the embrace and notices the growing redness on their faces, the desire in Potter’s green eyes.  
  
He stops looking.  
  
  
  
  
“When will you gain the courage to tell me the truth?” He asks point-blank, one night at dinner.  
  
Draco remains motionless, with a fork suspended a few centimeters from his lips.  
  
“Do you think I’m blind, Draco?” Lucius asks, reclining the cutlery on the side of his plate.  
  
Twinkie disappears with frightening rapidity.  
  
“It’s not what you think ...” his son mutters, using the most consumed justification.  
  
Lucius is let down by his predictability.  
  
“No,” he replies. “It’s exactly how I think. Is this the reason for you to not marry? Is this the reason why you abandoned any project of glory for our family?”  
  
“Glory!” Draco snaps, throwing the fork on his plate. “What good does it gave us your glory?!”  
  
Lucius is almost glad to see him furious. For a long time Draco seemed lifeless as a broken doll.  
  
“You’re a Malfoy, Draco! You have duties! Or have you already forgotten ...”  
  
“Oh, I wish!” He sighed, standing up. “I wish I could forget you and this cursed place and all that you taught me! I wish I would not have to sit in this room where ... I wish I could humiliate every one of your desires!” he confesses with fierce satisfaction.  
  
They end up fighting. Lucius returns to his room only after hearing Draco slam his door.  
  
  
  
The following days are heavy with fog. Draco doesn’t leave his room and receives only Twinkie, who brings him the mail.  
  
  
  
  
In occasion of the anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts, the school and the Ministry organize a dinner. With great surprise, both Draco and Lucius are invited.  
  
Hogwarts is intact and perfect. After the introductory speech from headmistress McGonagall and the testimonies of those who fought that day, the guests are accompanied in the great hall, brightly lit by the suspended candles. The dances begin.  
  
Lucius sits near the appetizers table, too tired to even bother to engage in a waltz. And besides, no one would ever want to dance with a former Death Eater. Draco, however, enjoys himself in witty conversations, a sign of his renewed social charisma. Lucius is pleased.  
  
“You joined us,” Potter murmurs, taking a seat next to him.  
  
Lucius withdraws, scandalized by the Auror’s audacity.  
  
“It must be strange to party for something that you never wanted to,” he adds, and Lucius feels an intense desire to strike him down. “But I think I can get that ...”  
  
“Mr. Potter, aren’t you enjoying the celebrations in your honor?”  
  
Potter shrugs and takes a sip of his drink.  
  
“Not in my honor. Every wizard and witch in this room risked death to fight against Voldemort.”  
  
“Every wizard and witch ... except me and Draco. We wanted something else.”  
  
“Not Draco. It was different for him.”  
  
Lucius frowns and turns to look at his son, then back at Potter. The knowledge that, perhaps, that disheveled Auror could know Draco better than him cools his anger.  
  
“And what ... what Draco wants?” Lucius asks, hesitantly.  
  
Potter shakes his head and looks away. In his eyes, Lucius still sees desire, this time combined with a sadness and a need so intense that he can only call …  
  
“It’s difficult for a child …” he finds himself saying. “Facing up to the responsibilities.”  
  
“I guess so,” Potter agrees, still staring at Draco.  
  
“Draco has always wanted to make me proud,” Lucius adds. “That’s what a son does.”  
  
“Oh, I wouldn’t know ...”  
  
“I beg your pardon?”  
  
Potter gets up.  
  
“I’ve never been a son,” he says, walking away.  
  
  
  
  
Potter returns to the Manor once more. Draco invites him in the study and, after a few minutes, their dispute is heard from the hall.  
  
Lucius dismisses Twinkie and decides to see what’s happening. When he opens the door he sees them facing each other from the opposite sides of the room, both burning with rage and pain.  
  
“Here is he! He joined us!” Potter roars. He’s the redder of the two, after a good look Draco seems pale and lifeless. _“The cause of all your fears!”_  
  
There is sarcasm in his voice, but also sincerity. Draco pales even more.  
  
“What can I say? What do you expect me to do, Draco? Stand still and let you go without a fight? You really know me so little?”  
  
“Stop it, Harry ...”  
  
“No. No! We have a chance, you and I! We can be happy,” he says, and his voice becomes more gentle, pleading. “And you know it! You know how happy we can be ... but you are a coward, _just like your father._ You’re afraid to take responsibility for your actions and you prefer to live in this place, and you hate and fear, rather than being a man and choose me!”  
  
Draco stands still.  
  
_“Coward!”_ Harry spits furiously.  
  
Lucius cannot help himself.  
  
“Don’t you dare to insult my son!” he blurts out. “This is still my home and I don’t care if you’re an Auror, the Chosen One or the Almighty himself! If you keep insulting Draco, I ...”  
  
_“I don’t love you,”_ Draco hisses, so low he has to repeat it. “I don’t love you,” he says, looking straight into Potter’s eyes, who seems to be disintegrating before him. “I pretended, but now I’m tired. Go away, please.”  
  
A war of silent glares is fought between Harry and Lucius, but Draco is already out and the dispute is over.  
  
Harry disappears swearing.  
  
Lucius runs along the corridor and opens Draco’s door. He finds his son curled up on the bed, bare feet and shoulders shaking with sobs. He approaches him cautiously.  
  
“Draco ...”  
  
His son turns from him and buries his face in the pillow.  
  
  
  
  
“You’ll be happy now. Harry won’t come back.”  
  
Draco appears behind him, pale and thin as a ghost. He sits at the table and grabs a spoon. He cried his eyes out, Lucius can see that much, and he’s very weak from the effort.  
  
“We can have dinner.”  
  
Twinkie approaches with the roast. She serves Lucius a portion of meat and only sup for Draco.  
  
“Draco, please stop ... I won’t ask you to marry a pureblood anymore. I wouldn’t …”  
  
Draco curves his lips in a tired smile.  
  
“Father, I wouldn’t accept to marry a pureblood under the imperio curse.”  
  
“Then why this?” Lucius asks, confused.  
  
Draco sighs.  
  
“The Boy who Lived, Savior of the wizarding world, with an ex-Death Eater? There are so many things wrong from the start, it would be foolish to dream about a happy ending. And Harry deserves much, much more. At last one has to recognize a lost cause. Besides isn’t this what you do?”  
  
“What?” Lucius asks, his hand seeking Draco’s.  
  
“When you do love someone. Love is only true in the sacrifice, doesn’t it?”  
  
Lucius nods and holds his son’s fingers.  
  
  
  
  
Draco is one year old and he’s playing on the carpet, in his parents’ bedroom. Narcissa sits beside him.  
  
Occasionally, she makes his toys float and creates blue and green butterflies, soft and shiny like bubbles. Draco loves them and chuckles joyfully.  
  
“Lucius, do you have to read that just here?” Narcissa asks, raising an eyebrow at her husband, who sits at a safe distance from the rest of his family and who holds a secret missive.  
  
The time has come. _The Fidelius charm is broken_ , thanks to the collaboration of a filthy Gryffindor. The Potters’ fate is sealed.  
  
“It’s urgent business of crucial importance,” he explains.  
  
Narcissa doesn’t seem impressed at all.  
  
“But we could go out and show little Draco the festivities ...”  
  
“And involve my son in the celebration of a stupid Muggle recurrence?!” Lucius exclaims, stunned. “Narcissa, you disappoint me!”  
  
His wife shrugs and keeps on playing with Draco, who showers his colorful puppets with saliva.  
  
Lucius reads again the letter announcing the Potters’ end. He suddenly realizes that the child of the prophecy, _Harry_ , must have the same age of Draco. Same year of birth, probably same height and weight. He pictures a child in a home, playing under his mother’s eyes and laughing happily.  
  
He’s condemning that child, but he’s doing it for a superior idea, for a good that transcends ... for ...  
  
Draco smiles. Lucius closes his eyes.  
  
  
  
“What is this?” Draco asks, looking into the parchment that his father hands him.  
  
They just ate breakfast. Draco only had a cup of tea.  
  
“It’s an official document. I just sold a wing of the Manor and some properties belonging to the Malfoy family. The money is enough to buy an apartment in London, or wherever you prefer. I haven’t bothered with the details, I just made sure that the sum was appropriate.”  
  
Draco reads the document, looks up, reads the document again.  
  
“Why? This house is everything you ever wanted to preserve.”  
  
“Not everything,” Lucius replies. “And you loathe it. I think it’s only fair to give you a chance to leave.”  
  
Draco hesitates.  
  
“Father …”  
  
_“No more sacrifices,_ Draco.”  
  
“I have no one who will share this new beginning with me ...” he mutters, defeated.  
  
Lucius looks at the Floo that begins to glow in a greenish light.  
  
“Again, I have taken some liberties. But don’t be afraid, I will not meddle in yours and Potters’ affairs.”  
  
Fresh tears cross Draco’s face, but this time Lucius feels as if they are benign and, finally, painless. When he sees the green of Harry’s eyes into the green flames, he understands that it’s time for him to leave.  
  
He closes the door behind him and walks towards the garden.  
  
Over a fence, away from the colossal gray mausoleum of house Malfoy, he sees a white stone and lilies spread all around.  



End file.
